“It’s not! Your hair is lovely!”
“Mum. I’ve made my decision.”
I sighed. “Right. It’s your hair . . .” I said, feeling my own heavy, dark mane that I wouldn’t have cut for the world.
“It is,” she said mutinously.
“But it’s so gorgeous . . .” I tried again.
“Mum!”
“Okay, okay.” I put my hands up.
I had to admit to myself it was hard to see Lara growing, turning into a young woman, but there was no point in resisting the change. Also, I suspected that this makeover thing she’d asked for had something to do with the mysterious Mal. She’d mentioned him in passing one day when we were baking goodies for La Piazza.
“So, is this Mal a new friend of yours?” I’d said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Yes,” Lara had said briefly. Just like that, without elaborating.
“Right. Is he a nice boy?”
“Yes, of course he is! I wouldn’t be friends with someone nasty, would I?” she’d snapped.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Just maybe it’d be nice to meet him . . .”
“Mum!”
And that had been the end of the conversation. I’d looked at her pleadingly one last time, but she glared at me, so I left it.
With the intention of keeping an eye on this new friend of hers, it goes without saying.
“I’m sure Lara will introduce him to us when she gets the chance,” my mum had said diplomatically when I’d brought it up with her. I thought back at the grief my sisters and I had invariably got from my dad every time we mentioned a boy, and I didn’t want to be as possessive as my dad had been, although he’d always been loving with it. It was sort of endearing, looking back. But I had to try to let Lara have her own experiences.
Within reason.
“Listen, Lara, why don’t we make a day of it? We can go and have contact lenses fitted and your hair cut, and do some shopping to round off your new look?”
“I’d love that! This weekend maybe?”
“I’ll ask Nonna if she’s okay to look after Leo. If she says yes . . .”
“She always says yes,” Lara said without a hint of jealousy. She was more confident than I’d seen her for a long time, and revelled in her relationship with my mum and Michael.
“That’s true, yes. And now let’s see how these tortine turned out,” I said, taking a bite.
23
New beginnings
Margherita
Carlotta was standing with a microphone in her hand, confident and commanding the attention of the whole room in spite of being a small, slight woman. She had a pixie cut and smiling brown eyes, and she was wearing a bright-yellow minidress that made her look like she, herself, was liquid sunshine. Copies of her book, Drinking Sunshine, were piled on the table behind her and displayed all around a poster with her photograph and the cover of the book.
“Your labels are perfect,” I whispered to Lara, who was standing beside me. They were a bright-blue sky with fluffy clouds as a base, with a tiny yellow sun in the corner.
She beamed. Our favour bags full of tiny biscuits, kept closed by blue ribbons and decorated with Lara’s labels, made a pretty sight on their tray beside the books, while my mum’s vintage plates displayed our creations beautifully. I couldn’t wait for the guests to tuck in, although I was also a bit nervous.
“I wanted to encompass my experience as a life coach with my research on Eastern philosophy . . .” Carlotta was saying, but I couldn’t concentrate on her words; all I could think about was the moment when the guests would approach the little tables arranged at the back of the room and sample the food I’d made with so much love and care. Part of me knew that I had nothing to worry about, that we had sampled everything and it was all delicious, but another part of me wondered what if they didn’t like it? I couldn’t help it. “. . . to help my clients identify what I call Core Needs and to reach their Point of Achievement . . .”
Finally, the presentation was over – with a deep-breathing exercise that left me gasping for air, ironically, and Lara giggling – and the guests gathered around the food and drink. I tried to be inconspicuous as I mingled with the crowd and kept my ears open for any comments.
“It looks like they’re polishing off the lot . . .” I whispered to my mum, looking for reassurance.
“Absolutely! Why wouldn’t they? It’s delicious and you know it.”
“They’ll only leave the crumbs. And then lick the plates,” said Lara.
“Now that would be a bit much . . .”
“And there you are!” Carlotta approached us, flushed and happy after her thank-you speech and all the congratulations that came her way. “Abby, this is Margherita. Margherita, Abby needs . . . I’ll let her tell you herself.”
A young woman with smiling eyes shook my hand. “So you are the famous Margherita!”
“I don’t know about famous . . .”
“Well, Carlotta raved about your creations and now I know why!”
“Thank you. They aren’t really my creations as such; they’re old recipes, just not very well known outside of Italy.”
“We’ll spread the word! I was thinking, I’m having my hen do soon . . . We’re having a spa party at my parents’ house. It’ll be in a couple of months’ time. Maybe, if you’re not too busy . . . I mean, there will be quite a few girls there, it could be quite good networking for you as well as a gig.”
“Oh, that’s a pity, Abby. I won’t be here in two months’ time . . . I’m only in Glen Avich for the summer.”
“Oh, no! I had my heart set on it . . .”
“Why don’t we give you this for now and see how it goes?” said Lara, taking a small white card from her bag. “My mum’s business card.”
My business card? Had Lara made business cards for me? I thought we hadn’t decided on that one.
“Oh, thank you. Can I have two? My cousin is having her son christened soon and you never know, I suppose,” Abby said. “It was nice to meet you, I hope we speak again soon!”
“And you,” I said. And then, to Lara: “Business cards?”
“Courtesy of Prontaprint! They’re a bit amateurish but it was the best I could do in less than a week.”
“Amateurish?” I laughed. We hardly had a professional business established! We’d just baked a few biscuits and put them into bags, really.
“They are lovely,” my mum said. And they were: pure white with blue lettering, recalling the colour scheme of La Piazza.
Margherita Ward
Catering and Cakes
Italian Recipes and More
c/o La Piazza
Glen Avich
“I thought I’d keep them simple. Less is more,” said Lara solemnly.
“This was such a thoughtful thing to do, Lara! I had no idea!”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said with a smile.
“How many did you have made?”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“Two hundred and fifty? But it says Glen Avich on here! And we’re leaving in a few weeks . . .”
“Well, I—”
“I think I’m late. There’s no food left.” It was Torcuil, standing at my side all of a sudden. Lara turned around and walked away, reaching Inary on the other side of the room. We’d discuss this later, but I could guess what she was trying to tell me . . .
“What are you doing here?” I asked Torcuil.
“I’m looking for a life coach, did I not tell you?”
“You are?” I laughed.
“Sure! I need to find my Core Needs and Points of Achievement . . .”
“Shhh!” I laughed. “I didn’t see you in the crowd.”
“I was hiding in the gardening section doing my breathing exercises.”
“Shut up!”
“Honestly! And I think I have identified my Core Need for a cup of tea—”
“Lord Ramsay! It
’s an honour!” Carlotta had zoomed in on Torcuil.
“Oh, hello. Congratulations on your book, Carlotta,” he said warmly.
“Thank you. I didn’t know you’d be here! Wait till I call the photographer, we must have a picture taken together . . .”
I watched while Torcuil stood for pictures like you would stand on a bed of hot coals.
“Oh, don’t tell me you already bought a copy! I would have given you a complimentary one. Why don’t I give it to you anyway, you can pass it on to your girlfriend?” Carlotta said, eyebrows rising at the end of the sentence. She was fishing, I could see it. And it was oh-so annoying.
“I’ll be sure to do that,” Torcuil said, and Carlotta’s face fell almost imperceptibly. She recovered herself in the blink of an eye.
“Oh, good. So she’s not around tonight?”
“Oh, my, look at the time! I’d better go. It was lovely meeting you, Carlotta,” Torcuil said quickly, and, as soon as she left, he turned to me. “Nosy . . .” he whispered.
“Well, you are quite a catch!”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t. I hate it when Inary says that.”
“But it’s true! Did you see the way she was looking at you? And you must admit she’s pretty.”
“I didn’t notice.” I considered how unlikely it would be for any man not to notice Carlotta’s fair, pink-cheeked Scandinavian beauty. “Also, she’s too . . . too upbeat for me. Like she swallowed a disco ball.”
“She’s a life coach, she has to be this way! All cheerful and enthusiastic.”
“You could plug her in.”
“Stop it! Anyway . . . were you working today? Did you come all the way from Edinburgh?”
“Yes. I’m off home now. Need a lift?”
That sounded very casual. Like, Need a lift? If you don’t it’s all the same.
“I—”
“She does, yes,” my mum said. She had walked over to us with two elderly ladies from Glen Avich, Maggie and Liz. They were part of the blue-rinse brigade that patronised La Piazza – looking for chats as much as for tea and scones, and almond croissants it seemed. They were nearly as well informed as Peggy, and a lot chattier. Whenever there was something happening in Glen Avich, they had to be there to oversee the proceedings – and sometimes they branched out, like today. They were both wearing their Sunday coats and carrying their best handbags, and I could guess Maggie had had her hair blow-dried at Enchant that afternoon. It sat immobile and, surely, was highly inflammable.
“Maggie, Liz and I are going for errands after this and I think Lara is planning to go with Inary.” My mum gestured at Lara and Inary chatting animatedly in the corner.
“Hello, Torcuil, how are you? We haven’t seen you in a long time in the village,” Liz said.
“Well, Mrs Ritchie, you know, I’m busy with my work. But I should come down more often.”
“And tell me, do you have a special someone at last?” Maggie intervened.
“No. No special someones for me, Mrs Bell.”
Liz raised her eyebrows. “And why is that, I ask myself, when there are so many pretty girls in Glen Avich?”
“No one as pretty as you ladies,” said Torcuil, completely sidestepping her question. I kept trying to smother laughter, but I wasn’t sure how long I would last before my mirth spilled out.
“Oh, you’ve always been so charming. Since you were a little boy! So, where are you off to after this, Margarayta?”
“Well, I do have some stuff left to do at Ramsay Hall,” I said. “I just didn’t have much time this week . . .”
“But that’s okay, don’t worry, honestly!” Torcuil reassured me.
“Well, it’s her job, isn’t it? She needs to go and sort the things she hasn’t sorted yet,” said Maggie. “Not come gallivanting with us, don’t you think, Maggarita?”
What?
“That’s true. You go with your young man, Margaret-ah,” Liz said. My name isn’t that hard to pronounce, is it? But both Maggie and Liz seemed unable to . . . wait – did she say my young man?
“I’m not that young, Mrs Bell,” said Torcuil.
“Oh, when you’re my age you’ll know what old is really like!” She laughed a wistful laugh. “Enjoy it while you can. Off you go, you two . . .” she said, and she literally pushed me and Torcuil towards the door.
We were left with no choice but leave together, with a brief goodbye to Lara.
They’d set me up.
“So, what are we going to do?” Torcuil said as we stepped out of Waterstones.
“What do you mean? Aren’t we going back to Ramsay Hall so I can do the work I didn’t do today?”
“I didn’t come and get you so that you’d do more work for me! I’m not a slave driver!”
“No, I know, but—”
“I’ll tell you what. It’s a beautiful evening, let’s go for a . . . oh.”
“What?”
“I felt a drop on my hand.”
“Oh . . . me too. It’s starting to rain . . . so much for the beautiful evening . . .”
“Okay, let’s go for food then.”
“That’s always a good idea! Where? Oh, wait! I know. I’ll take you to this place I know . . .”
“Do you know restaurants in Aberdeen?”
“Well, my mum and Michael told me about it. It’s not far from the Trinity Centre. Wait . . .” I took out my phone and checked out the route on Google Maps.
“What’s the name?” Torcuil asked.
“I’m not telling you, because you’ll know it for sure and I want it to be a surprise.”
“Okay, I’m up for it.”
We only had to walk for a few minutes, thankfully, because it had begun to rain in earnest.
“Oh, La Lucciola!”
“See? I knew you knew it!”
“Well, I’ve never been. And you can educate me on Italian food.”
“I’ll be happy to!”
Sitting across Torcuil, I considered how he made every table and chair look smaller when he sat. Tonight he was wearing a light-blue shirt with his sleeves rolled up – he always did that, I’d noticed. His eyes, so changeable, tonight were grey.
“So . . . you were interested in Carlotta’s work?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“I suspected!”
“I came to see you,” he said, looking over my shoulder. I hung my head immediately, and we were like two awkward teenagers.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to try any of the stuff I made. I have a few bags left at the house,” I said, trying to dispel the awkwardness.
“You’ve been in Glen Avich a matter of weeks and you already have two jobs.” He smiled.
“I know. Crazy. Look what Lara made for me . . .” I took out the business cards from my bag.
“She’s a thoughtful girl . . .”
“Are you ready to order or do you need five minutes?”
“The lady is ordering for both of us,” Torcuil said, and smiled at me.
“Oh, that’s a big responsibility! Well, we’ll go for . . . risotto ai funghi for me and . . . tagliolini al tartufo?”
“No idea what that is.”
“Trust me.”
“I certainly do.”
“And antipasti misti to start, please,” I said, fully satisfied with my choices.
“You look like the cat who got the cream,” he laughed.
“Oh, I know! I’m more than a bit obsessed with food. It’s in my genes.”
“So, we were saying . . .” – Torcuil lifted the little card I had handed him – “. . . but wait, she put your Glen Avich address? But you’re leaving in a few weeks’ time . . . though I really don’t like thinking about it.”
“I know. It’s like . . . it’s like she’s trying to tell me something. That she doesn’t want to go.”
“And what do you want?” The candlelight was flickering and dancing between us, giving his skin a golden hue and making his eyes sparkle blue again.
I
didn’t know how to answer that. He looked at me like he was trying to look all the way into my soul, and something stirred inside me that had been dormant for a long time.
24
Life itself
Torcuil
I sit across her while we eat. She is life itself, her cheeks pink in the candlelight, her eyes liquid, rejoicing in the sensual pleasure of the food. She’s chatting, animated, talking about anything and everything with that lovely London accent of hers.
And then the moment comes when I’m speaking, but I don’t know what I’m saying; I’m listening, but I can’t hear the words.
A fire has started inside me, warm and bright, like the light you would see in a window on a cold winter’s night. And the warmth and light are calling me home.
I leave her at her mum’s house in Glen Avich after a silent drive – she leaned her head against the car seat, tired after the excitement of the day. Her eyelashes cast a little shadow on her cheeks and one of her hands was uncurled on her lap – she had small, slender fingers, tiny as a starfish.
Ramsay Hall seems even colder and darker – my bed is cold too. Dreams of Margherita take my hand and lead me through the night, and the last thing I see behind my closed eyes, just before sleep conquers me, is her face.
25
Union
Margherita
I was driving back from Aberdeen after the day out I’d promised Lara, and my head was full of thoughts and doubts and questions. I was still reeling from the success of my catering and from the woman I met, Abby, possibly offering me another gig. And, of course, from dinner with Torcuil.
It was just a dinner. It didn’t mean anything.
But I had loved every minute.
And the way he looked at me . . . like I was something precious. Something delicate he held in the palm of his hand and that he would never let break or fall. Thoughts of him followed me through the day with Lara, though I did my best to put them out of my head.
Our day out shopping, just the two of us, had been a success. In the space of a morning she had managed to finally get contact lenses in (“No, I won’t get you purple-coloured ones; yes you told me that Ophelia in Bride of Shadows has purple eyes, but you’re still not getting them), her hair cut (my heart broke with every strand of gold that touched the floor) and a few new items of clothing (“Yes, I know you’re not a character from Little Women, but that skirt suits you so well . . . No? Okay, let’s go for skinny jeans instead . . .”). I was exhausted, like any sane human being would be after shopping with a teenager for three hours, and I needed a cappuccino break, but Lara was set on me buying something for myself.
Set Me Free Page 16
